


Delicate

by eldritchbarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Not Epilogue Compliant, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26489860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritchbarry/pseuds/eldritchbarry
Summary: "I'm sorry for standing by while she tortured you," Draco rasped. "For being a coward, and a slave to my basest judgments. A slave to evil." He began to shake violently, struggling not to cry. Although he willed himself to stop and regain composure, his shame drove him further."I'm sorry for hurting the people you love, Hermione," he continued. "I'm sorry that I hurt you. I can never fix it," he whispered, talking almost to himself. "I can never fix it."
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Kudos: 11





	Delicate

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing special about this; it's just my idea of a post-war Dramione relationship. I can't get it out of my head, so I'm writing it.
> 
> The rating is likely to change to explicit, but maybe I'll end up not feeling very smutty. In any case, I'll make a note if things do get racy.
> 
> Enjoy!

Hermione perched in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs lining the Auror Office's back wall, lightly tapping her feet to a rhythm in her head as she eyed the Aurors bustling about their cubicles.

An ornate, cozy-looking chaise sat along the perpendicular wall, but Hermione would've felt odd lounging on the thing, given the purpose of her visit; or the enigma behind her invitation, perhaps. The instant Hermione received an owl from the Office beckoning her to discuss an "urgent matter" with the Head Auror, she knew something was amiss—maybe Harry was in trouble, she thought. The possibility turned her stomach.

Lately, he'd been off on assignment after assignment, chasing down the surprisingly profuse Dark wizards who were still engaging in plots against Muggle-borns and half-bloods. On the rare occasions that she saw him, he looked exhausted and somewhat crazed—haunted. Like Hermione, Ginny, and the rest, Harry struggled with the reality of the post-war Wizarding world. Tensions had not died with Lord Voldemort. Those harrowing years could not be wrapped up and stowed away. Voldemort's legacy—his hatred—carried on in the hearts of some, and while those few were once again relegated to secrecy following the war, they still managed to polarize and wound Wizarding society.

One post-war tragedy dogged Hermione day and night, in wakefulness and rest—if you could call it "rest": Ron. Ron's murder. Undoubtedly, it was this loss that pushed Harry to pursue Dark wizards relentlessly, hoping to avenge his friend; and that caused Ginny to allow Harry to leave home so often. While everyone mourned Ron, no one felt the loss so acutely as the three of them, who fought by his side for seven long years.

The killer was still at large. Some chalked his death up to an occupational hazard—after all, he was tasked with the seizure of Dark wizards. Aurorship wasn't supposed to be safe. But Hermione suspected that he'd been hunted, and that she'd watch the same cruel fate befall Harry or Ginny.

She was less concerned with her own survival. After fighting so hard during the war, only to watch her husband—her best friend—die within the year, Hermione lost a lot of gumption. She rented a flat in Muggle London, where she mostly tried to blend in, save for the wards surrounding her flat and everyday spells (her tea still stirred itself, of course, and she enchanted her agenda to pencil itself in according to her work schedule and correspondences). Ginny said that Hermione had lost her taste for magic, and a bit of her life force went with it. She didn't want to fight anymore; without Ron, she wasn't sure what to fight _for_. Harry sought vengeance, and Ginny had her fractured but loving family to depend on. Hermione just wanted to forget. Loss swallowed her whole.

It had been three years since his death, and Hermione spent that time burying herself in clerical work at the Ministry. Still involved in legal protections for magical creatures, she turned down opportunities for advancement at every turn. The paperwork was tedious, formulaic. Simple. Mind-numbing.

“Ahem,” coughed someone who’d suddenly appeared by Hermione. She broke from her reverie, looking up to see Bruce Blackwood, former mentor of the Minister—Kingsley Shacklebolt—and Head Auror. Bruce’s face was lined with gentle folds, especially near his mouth, where one could often find a smile. “Thank you for stopping in on such short notice, Ms. Granger,” he said. Hermione never changed her surname to Ron’s. “I know you’ve been busy, what with all the werewolf controversy lately.”

Hermione followed Blackwood across the office, trying to guess at the reason for their meeting. Blackwood didn’t sound grim, she noted, ruling out the possibility that Harry was in danger. Bruce confirmed her hypothesis when he chortled, “That Potter is vying for my seat, I think—works nonstop, the bludger.” Although she was too nervous to respond, Hermione was grateful for his attempt at small talk and verification that Harry yet lived. Turning to face her, Blackwood met Hermione’s eyes as his own twinkled with pride. “Harry’ll be perfect for the job. And I won’t live forever, you know.”

When they arrived at his desk, which was sectioned off from the office’s other cubicles, Blackwood cast a Muffliato charm. Hermione held her breath, lowering stiffly into the chair across from Bruce.

“Ms. Granger, we’ve received a tip regarding your husband’s death,” Blackwood declared as she sat. Blood and warmth leaked back into Hermione’s extremities, her heartbeat accelerating. _A tip? After three years, a tip?_

“Who—what?” Hermione breathed. “You know who? You know—why?”

Despite the fortunate news, Blackwood’s typically cheery disposition began to darken. Hermione didn’t notice this, nor did she give him time to respond. Her thoughts flew, finding themselves on her tongue before she could screen them.

“He was hunted, you mean? I knew he was—I knew it wasn’t an accident, that is,” she blurted out, her eyes alight. “Undoubtedly, the friend of a Death Eater, of one of the accused!” Hermione racked her brain for possibilities, unearthing the myriad theories she’d buried months prior, when she gave up on Ron’s case.

Meeting Blackwood’s gaze, Hermione realized two things: one, she’d begun to pace manically. Two, Blackwood seemed as though he hadn't finished briefing her on Ron’s case, and the remaining news might not be so uplifting.

“Hermione, I want you to know that we’re inviting you to investigate the case,” Blackwood intoned. “Besides our heavy caseload, drawing all of our most talented Aurors away from the Office, we’re aware that you have a lot to offer this investigation. You’re free to decline, of course,” he added. Hermione didn’t understand why he sounded wary; of course, she wanted to help. She couldn’t imagine a better scenario.

“Yes, Mr. Blackwood,” she replied. “I’m happy to come on.”

“Our informant—the individual who provided the tip, that is—has signed a contract with the Ministry. They—uh, _he_ —will work alongside you, assuming that you agree to work together,” Blackwood pressed on. Hermione reseated herself, her nerves rising again.

“Is there some reason he wouldn’t want to work with me?” Despite a few nasty articles in the _Prophet_ , post-war attention directed at the Golden Trio had been overwhelmingly positive. Hermione began cross-referencing people who would cooperate with the Ministry but prefer not to work at her side, coming up empty.

“Actually, Ms. Granger, we’re concerned that _you_ won’t want to work with _him_ ,” Blackwood said, casting a furtive glance around the room. “He was supposed to be here by now…”

As if on cue, Hermione heard someone enter the room behind them. “Ah,” Blackwood squeaked. Looking over her shoulder, Hermione attempted to catch a glimpse of the mysterious man, but cubicle walls blocked her view.

Then, he emerged from behind the nearest wall, making calm, long strides toward them. He fixed Hermione with his gaze, his face completely still. Unreadable.

It was Draco Malfoy.


End file.
